Knights in Skyrim
by Douche Worthington
Summary: Skyrim, the land of dragons, and mystical wonders. The land where falls eternally, a glistening snow. How then, will fare the brave knights of Agatha and their Mason foes? (Chivalry medieval warfare crossover)


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/n: so I have no idea where this is going to go in all honesty, but I've been holding onto it for a while. Im also pretty sure this is the only chivalry medieval warfare fic to date as well, which is understandable being that the franchise's lore is well... absolutely bare. That being said, almost everything I've written in this chapter is a downright fabrication, namely the characters and locations.

Oh, and as always, with everything I write, hate and flames are of course, always welcome.

**Prologue**- (note: this chapter will not yet have the elements of a crossover)

"_Blue as the sky where the gods guard over all,_

_Gold as the sun which giveth life with its sprawl_."- the colors of Agatha.

A grey sky. A grey field. Vivid shades of greens and blues, normally, but the overcast noon had shed its deathly tint over all.

In this forlorn field, somewhere unnamed, a sea of defiant hues stood. Glimmering golds and blues, the shining silver of exposed armor glinting, stood abreast. It was here, the knights of Agatha had pursued their quarry, had cornered them against the forbidding wooded expanse that lay before them and now made ready to repel a desperate assault.

From the far reaches of the north a cold wind blew, scything through steel and cloth like a knife through butter, but the knights- but Garrick, remained firm. Not a shiver was given, not a single tremble for he- as they, were in that moment, not men but stone. Each man, a brick in a fortified stronghold; a jagged boulder resting in a shallow rapid; forbidding, impenetrable. Like stone they would hold. Hold against that ravenous red tide, as it approached, and let them be dashed bloody against their fortitude.

Garrick, peeking over the top of his sturdy tower shield made ready. The red blob, once ever so distant, drew intimately close now. The distinctive forms of men grew like tumors out of that rabble; their fearsome visages and blood curdling war cries given form and substance.

Somewhere nearby, the dukes voice rang out heroically from atop that majestic white steed. It commanded: "prepare to receive!, prepare to receive! Mine own person hath reason to fear, but in wake of these craven dogs I pray thee, hold! In the name of the King!".

Up and down the line, fearsome cries rang out, matching the opposition in their sheer volume.

"For the king!"

"Foooor Argooooooon!"

Garrick raised his sword now; braced his shield against his steady stance, himself against the man behind him. Then one more unified roar resounded above the din of trampling boots.

"Agathaaaaaa!"

And the two bodies clashed, a sea of red and blue and shining steel.

Garrick grunted as he felt the collision against his shield, but no further blows descended. This was the initial clash. The two forces unyielding were now locked in a ferocious struggle, a test of brute strength. Garrick eyed the man to his front, a rugged looking man, his face stretched taut, jaw clenching in concentration as he and his mortal enemy lay not a hairs width away, their faces so close they could feel the others breath intermingling with their own. But they could not strike in such close proximity and so they, and all their comrades behind them pushed. Pushed with all their might until one side relented and stumbled away.

Red broke first. The front ranks seemed to convulse as men stumbled backwards under the pressure, then with a shudder the whole body was sent tumbling backwards.

Now was the time to strike! Garrick, his arms free now, but limited in mobility by the tight formation he stood in, raised his sword to deliver a powerful overhead strike. He was not the swiftest of combatants, especially so in his rigid plate armor but his timing was impeccable, and so his adversary, now righted and in mid swing with an enraged snarl on his face was met only with the descending lash of sharpened steel. It was a solid blow, colliding full on with the mans helmet. The blade itself glanced off harmlessly, delivering neither cut, nor gash to the man as his helm did its job, but the impact alone from the heavy bastard sword was enough to jar the man out of consciousness but for a second. It was, however, all the time Garrick needed to bring the blade round again and thrust that cold steel, point-first into the mans gut. The tapered point broke effortlessly through mail hauberk and bit flesh. There was a sharp gasp, and the man collapsed. A victory, but only temporary as, just as soon as the man had given his dying gasp, another had moved to take his place.

This new contender was a difficult one, unburdened by the shock of the initial push and with the advantage of reach. He brandished a long pole arm- a halberd, and with it, endeavored to keep Garrick well out of striking distance, a feat he accomplished remarkably well. Every other second, a shower of bright sparks would fly, a jolt sent down Garrick's shield arm as the enemy thrust savagely with the tip of his weapon. There was force behind those attacks, but nowhere near enough to penetrate that thick steel coated shield, and soon, the man began to grow frustrated. It would be his downfall.

Recklessly, he swept. A deadly arc of steel came low to chop at Garrick's feet, but he saw through this, and with the mighty descent of shield to earth, snapped the head off the haft. Defenseless now, the red scrabbled for his sword, but was ended by a heavy blow from that infuriating shield as it was swung forth at a sickening speed. The forceful blow collided with his face, snapping his neck like a chickens.

Again and again the reds came, but each time, were repelled by the steadfast knights. Steel clashed against steel and sometimes met flesh, as overhead, the heavens opened up and unleashed a downpour upon the struggling bodies.

Eventually, the reds broke completely. There was a mad scramble now as they turned to run. Turned to save themselves, to lose their pursuers hopefully in the dark recesses of the woodland.

The duke urged his men on. "After them", he roared over the crash of thunder, "pursue the masons, those traitors, those dogs, today we deal them a crushing blow!"

The men heeded his words, but faltered at the edge of the forest. It was a dark menacing abyss. What feeble light remained dared not enter, and it's twisting gnarled branches seemed desiring to reach out and devour any unwanted trespassers. It was foreboding, in a word. Surely the gods were absent in such a place, and none but heathen masons might enter unharmed.

But the duke, and all his courage, his heroism, feared no such superstition. He dismounted that gallant steed and with no hesitation, strode forth into the darkness. The men followed shortly after, moving cautiously but steadily behind their gallant leader; a stream of blue, cutting their way tentatively through dense foliage, hacking and slashing when the overgrowth grew too thick, and pausing whenever the faintest rustle was heard or snapping of branch in the distance. Deeper and deeper the men crawled, but with no masons in sight. A faint murmuring began to well up in the men, the hesitation brought about at the edge of the tree line welling up again. Garrick gripped his shield tight. Where were the masons?

Somewhere down the line, a voice bellowed out against the billowing gusts and gales. Mac Tieran, the highlander whose voice rang hearty, and sang an old fight song; "ooooh me laddies o' White Prong!, ooooh yew warriors so brave! Wot will ye do when the trumpets blare, will yer claymores strike deep and strong!~ Ooooh me laddies o' White Prong!, ooooh yew warriors so fierce! Wot will ye do when the drum rolls beat, will ye let yer blades sing like lark song!"

"Hark! I pray thee silent!, and give me ability of hearing!"

The duke turned now at the head of the procession, mouth ajar slightly to give some sort of address that would never come. Suddenly, out of the cold, deadly shafts come a-flying and striking the men like the plague, both silent and deadly. One fateful shaft flew true and struck the Dukes breastplate deep. He dropped like a fly.

"Gods be damned, and fetch a healer quickly!". But none were on hand, and the duke lay cold.

A savage war cry followed, seemingly from nowhere and yet everywhere at the same time.

"For the order!"

Chaos erupted. Another volley of bolts and arrows flew, but from where, Garrick knew not. The knights scrambled now to form a hasty shield wall, but a few score were cut down before a chorus of angry hisses, shafts protruding out of them from every which angle. Garrick hunkered down behind his shield, those men who did not possess one knelt down behind those who did.

There were several attempts to retrieve the dukes carcass, but these were all hastily aborted before the swarm of deadly projectiles. Bodkin points and powerful crossbow bolts penetrated mail with ease, and sometimes found their way through thick plate as well.

Garrick felt a gauntleted hand on his shoulder pauldron, and turned his head slightly but dared not turn his body. A man, clad in plate on his arms and legs but foregoing the heavy cuirass in favor of tabard and mail. He recognized him, not personally, but by his weapon. A deadly double headed axe rested in his right hand, shaft planted in the dirt. Garrick felt the mans grip tighten. "Cowards", he hissed, "this is how cowards and peasants do battle".

There was a pause. An eerie pause in which naught but the shallow sounds of breath, and the crack of heavens wrath above could be heard.

"What do they call you, friend?", he spoke again.

"Garrick. Tyrene". An offhanded introduction.

He nodded in approval. "I know the name; a noble house."

"Oslow, of the house Arriston", he offered in return. But it was unneeded, for there was not a single man who had never heard of the bearer of the bloody axe; he whom had fought in the crusades and who's feat of arms and strength were legendary, and who hailed from the noblest of houses Arriston as lord.

Garrick grunted once in acknowledgement, and then again as another withering volley of projectiles impacted his shield. He turned to his fore. A stray arrow whizzed past him and somewhere to his rear, a pained cry rang out. He cursed and raised his shield higher. Where were those damned things coming from?

Oslows baritone voice spoke out again. "Do you know", he inquired, "what it is that makes men as they are?".

Garrick could not withhold a silent groan. He knew where this would lead; knew Oslows type.

"Bad blood", he continued, answering his own question, "causes all manner of inferiorities."

An arrow whizzed unnervingly close to his head, but he remained unflinching. "Most glaringly of all cowardice", he growled.

"They say that virtue stems from the heart."

Oslow let out a harsh chuckle. "Hah, and who is this they? Oh, say not. No doubt some meandering old codgers of the very same sort who would have us all throw up our arms in repentance and cry deluded, oh! but how we should all live in peace and the world should be perfect! But I know better, and knew an anatomist once, you see. A queer man. He'd done experiments- experiments on the body; a ghastly business, but he told me some things... Before I had him executed of course."

"Of course."

There was a rustling of mail as Oslow brought his fist to his own heart. "This", he emphasized, "is just a pump. The force that drives the blood through our veins, but nothing more. It is the blood that dictates the nature of a man".

He replaced his gauntleted hand to Garrick's shoulder. "Men like you and I, men like the duke and the king, are destined to sit atop the rabble. Tis, the natural order of things, the way the Gods have ordained us to be. Without us, society crumbles and barbarism ensues. Inferiority cannot be made to rule. Surely you know this."

Garrick spat scornfully in response, his countenance aflame with barely concealed frustration. "Malric Terrowin is of noble birth, perhaps you should side with him".

There was another harsh chuckle from Oslow, as though in preparation for the chastisement of some bawling fledgling babe. "He is indeed of the blood", he said, voice sure as steady steel, "but not next for the throne."

A shrill horn blast sounded in the distance as the steady rain of gleaming points in the wind died out. Oslow stood. In and around the huddle, the clanking of armor, as others followed suit. A gruff voice rang out, "hold men!, for god sakes hold!".

The Agathan contingent, leaderless but wrought with conviction, and sturdied by professionalism did hold.

The great whirling commotion of fierce war cries could be heard now, and the low throb of the earth under an onslaught of stamping feet approaching, felt.

Oslow hefted his great double axe, his posture of a man whom knew no equal, head held high to gaze downwards in contempt. "It would not do to support a man whom would incite the rabble against their betters".

He shifted his gaze imperiously, eyes coming to rest on the contingent and noting their shabby position.

"Steady up, they approach! And sergeant, you will call your men to order!"

The sergeant, a man of the dukes service, looked conflicted for a second.

"The Lord of house Arriston has commanded you!"

That set him in motion. "Form square maggots! To your places now, and waste not time! Or do you perhaps wish to make merry instead? Make haste, I say! Make haste!"

They did. Shields were lowered in the front ranks, and all manner of bristling spears bills and halberds raised in the second. It was no pike square but it would do.

xXx

"_Black as the shadow that yet remains_"

"_Red for the blood that runs in our veins_"- the colors of the Mason order.

Vandrick was ecstatic. It was an ambush. An ambush, and the loyalist dogs had fallen right for it! Oh, the fools!

A great welling up of anticipation stirred within him, the rumbling of primal energy threatening to burst from his core, and tear free from his throat in a savage howl.

All to his right and his left stood a lengthy procession of archers, letting loose their deadly arrows, brazenly as they pleased without the faintest glimmer of concern. They were like that he had found, exceedingly wealthy in bravado when there was no real fighting to be done, but nowhere to be found whenever the glinting of blades drawn drew close.

Archers. A subject of greater confliction, Vandrick had never known. A godsend when they were shooting at your enemies; the scum of the earth when they were your enemies. As a career soldier, Vandrick knew their importance, but detested them deep down. It seemed a mutual hatred anyway, or perhaps one could say all archers held some bizarre fetish for men like Vandrick whom carried no shield into battle. At any rate, they were a strange lot and Vandrick generally steered wide as he could from them whenever possible.

It was exceedingly lucky for him then, that the Agathan contingent held no such men, or perhaps not so much luck as it was the knowledge that they generally preferred keeping their arabalests and longbows high atop castle walls when unneeded.

There was no cavalry either, none on either side, heavy or otherwise. Both parties were small, in the hundreds at least, but not yet able to be called battalions. There was always a general lacking of auxiliary troops when it came to skirmishes of such scale, though in this case, the masons were a bit better off. They had archers, and greater numbers in general though unfortunately these were mostly peasant levies, drawn from the nearby villages on their latest recruitment drive. The lord of these lands- some duke or another- wasn't too popular with his subjects it had seemed.

"Oi, wots goin on down there?, I cant see nuthin!"

Vandrick shifted his gaze, wild eyes coming to rest on the source of the commotion, where the levies lay jostling in an awkward manner. He took them in, sized them up, and was left feeling utterly dissatisfied.

An older voice spoke out in reply, "Quiet boy I'm tryna lissen here"

"Watchu listenin for, den?"

"I says quiet!, din't ya hear me boy?"

They were a muddled lot, a bunch of disorganized rabble whose only indication of being a people at war lay in the presence of their shabby armaments and the few frugal armor pieces between them. Most were either too old or too young, and all of them on the scraggly side. Still, it was better then nothing at the very least, and what they lacked in discipline, skill, and- and well, everything which made up a proper soldier, they certainly made up for in enthusiasm, misguided as it may have been.

They were a far cry from those who lay in wait behind him, his brothers of the blade. He turned to face them. What few regulars the contingent had on hand, had bunched together in seclusion. They were a quiet lot, and knew their trade well. Their red tabards spoke of unity, professionalism, and they bore their arms expertly. His eyes fell upon a grizzled man-at-arms, who upon sensing his gaze, looked up from his work and gave him a slight nod. The rasping of whet stone on steel blade then continued.

And somewhere amongst that crowd, his superior stood -(by strength not by heritage for there were no such distinctions amongst the fellows of the mason order), fist clenched before him, raindrops splattering off of plate, black armor under heavens wrath pulsing onyx. He threw into a soliloquy, which unbeknownst to him, came across a wandering ear. "Ah, and such woe betides me, that I, Cyriston Karn, most skillful of the house of Karn, hath been given such a motley assembly. I feel, as though a pittance hath been thrown my way, my skills left unrequited, to be cast off into this backwater in such a manner, with nought but a little over a hundred men at my beck and call. Hark!, pray mark how the heavens weep for me! Very well. If this is to be the stage where I cast mine lot unto the world, I do declare the new world order". He put an ivory horn to his lips. "And thus the weak. Serve the strong."

The shrill horn blast sounding, harsh cheers resounding, all a blur to Vandrick whom with wild eyes gleaming mad, had sprung forth from his position.

"Chaaaaaaaaaarge!"

And so they did, scores of men bursting out of the tree line from every direction to encompass the Agathans and crush them utterly. No survivors would be left today, no quarter given.

The first wave to face combat was composed entirely of the peasant levies. They, in uncouth manner and foolhardy bravado had sped forth with undue haste, and all the while releasing jolly cries and vague political slogans of the sort no doubt taught to them on the recruitment drive.

"Down with the corrupt regime!", they would shout at once.

And raising their hammers, sickles and wooden bucklers, they clashed.

The regulars, trailing close behind knew well what would happen next.

First, the Agathans in the second ranks would lower their spear tips and upon this action- all hell raised. The foremost peasants, with gradual realization dawning, and the adrenaline of the initial rush lost, would slow to a stop; bravado turning to fear then panic, and cries for mercy. Some turned to flee, but sadly, it was all for nought. Now, the second row of peasants, unburdened by the sight and bearing down on their comrades like bulls, would collide and like hammer to nail, drive themselves straight onto the awaiting spears of the Agathan square.

Gleaming points thrust forth, flesh rent asunder and the Agathans, who valued loyalty amongst other things, showed no mercy. The front ranks diving forward, thrust their cold steel low, straight under the ribs of the undisciplined and inexperienced peasant rabble.

By the Gods they made for good fodder!

One of the peasants turned around in fright and was stricken at the sight beholden.

Here now come the mason regulars from the rear!, all in glossy reds and blacks and browns with Vandrick at their head. In his hands he gripped death; a massive flamberged zweihander. Its undulating blade trailed behind him as he ran, looking very much like a gout of cold steel fire and was as long as any man was tall! This he raised above his head with battle born strength, and in one fell swoop, took the peasants head clean off his shoulders for no reason at all.

Oh, but how he breathed battle, and his blood was up in flames!

"Glory to thy name!"

And the Masons came a-crashing.

And the Agathans were sent a-tumbling!

And the battle now devolved into a frantic melee. No formations, no order, only madness and the chaos of intimate man to man combat. Just the way Vandrick liked it.

"Come one come all me Bonnie lassies hoh! Come tae ol' Mac Tieran and git a sword up your bung hole!"

The highlander who bore the cross and lion, was immediately beset by two men.

"Ach, yer a pair o' conniving rascals, an' ah meant the one and not the all!"

Cyriston, his black armor gleaming set his messer sword a-swinging, and like deaths shadow itself he swept across the battlefield taking lives and limbs in equal measure with that wicked butchers blade.

"Die, prune!"

Ah, and here was a good sport! Vandrick, who was not to be left out, met his challenger graciously.

The Agathan man-at-arms came in with a powerful overhead swing of his flanged mace- a swing that Vandrick knew would crumple his helmet like tin should it connect, so he raised his sword up and took the brunt of it with his blade.

Sparks flying, metal groaning under pressure, and Vandrick sent a kick that set his opponent sprawling.

It should've ended there; the ones who lost their footing in battle were usually the first to die, but this man was quick, and rolled to the side as Vandrick brought his blade down hard.

The squelching mud thrown up, gave him no cause for recourse and so Vandrick, unrelenting, swung the massive zweihander forward in a slow but powerful horizontal crescent arc. Alas, but- the Agathan had righted himself fully at this point, and batted the swing away with his mace. It was a crude deflection though, and it sent the man staggering back a bit, giving Vandrick time enough to bring his blade around for the back swing.

Again, the man took it crudely, but with a bone rattling tremor sent down his arm from the heavy blade, and his footing growing ever more precarious until an underhanded swing caught him by surprise and sent his mace flying off into the distance.

At this point, most men would have either fled or begged for mercy, but the Agathan thought himself a hard man and so his only response was to throw his arms out wide, as if to embrace the heavens, and cry his defiance.

"So, what now, you most sniveling and wretched Mason dog!"

"This!", his voice throaty and fierce gave an answer.

The man had a big mouth Vandrick thought, and so it would only be fitting that he die filled. As such, the zweihanders blade flying straight and true in a mighty thrust, passed cleanly through the Agathans parted lips, split the base of his skull, and exited the other side. The undulating blade had torn a hole twice as large then would a regular blade have, and the man fell dead. Utterly.

Ah, precision at its finest, and the archers thought themselves talented. Pft, Vandrick spat on their hubris.

And spat actually, as a hulking mass crashed into his side with the force of a counter weight trebuchet. He did a little tumble, but managed to stay upright, saving his own life in the process as well, for he had just enough sense in him at that moment to swat away an incoming thrust from a long sword. His chain mail did its job well in this regard; protecting his arm from the razor sharp blade, but he knew a piercing blow from that weapon would've broke through with ease.

Back peddling furiously, clutching his side in agony, Vandrick abandoned his great zweihander, and yanked a vicious short sword from his belt. Oh! Just his luck! To be facing a man clad in full plate!

And suddenly, the short sword didn't seem so vicious anymore, for there, standing immaculate like some angel borne from heaven, the bane of all bladed weapons; a knight clad in shining silver! And with a massive tower shield as well.

Oh, how Vandrick hated these cowards!

"So", he began, hoping to gain a breather, "I suppose you think yourself so high and mighty standing there all in noble blue".

The knight seemed to pause. Vandrick grinned under his helmet. It seemed to be working so he continued.

"You, who stands there without cause, who stains his blade red like idle afterthought, pray tell, what do you fight for?"

He swept an arm out over the battlefield.

"What do you bleed for, what do you die for? To win? And if you win, then what? Oh, I'm sure your master would be plenty pleased with your performance, and go straightaways to the King bearing joyous news- to shower himself in his affections, and good graces, and be looked on favorably by the crown. Do you believe perhaps, that he'll throw you a bone once he gets there? That perhaps he'll be stricken by a sudden thought; and oh! but those brave soldiers who fight at my beck and call! But, they must also be rewarded surely!"

Vandrick, who had at this point forgotten all pretense, could not withhold a harsh laugh.

"Hah! these lords and ladies care nothing for men like us, nay, not even knights may hold their affection. You ser, are nothing more then a glorified tool, although one who bends over backwards of his own accord, and smiles as he does so, and for that I congratulate you. I however, did not toil through blood and fire- did not, on the distant dunes of some godforsaken land, spill and have mine blood spilt till the sand turned red and runny, all for the sake of some fat little shit of a lord to reap all the rewards! So, what say you lap dog?"

The knight was silent, his expression hidden under his horseman's helm. Then he spoke.

"I say, you are a whore. A whore, who once swore an oath to his country and now turns his back on the land he once called home, and the people he once called kinsmen- who runs amok preaching vicious qualities, and now stands making idle chatter about his just rewards. I say, to hell with you and your lot- I shall cast you to your maker, who is no god, but devil. Thence from now and forever shall your soul be damned- you who has the nerve to condemn me for the loyalty I preserve, and who's corpse shall cry a warning to the world- Justice served!

And the knight brought his shield before him like a great battering ram, and charged.

Vandrick, enraged snarled bestially. "You shall die a dogs death! Pitiless, unremembered! Rotting in some ditch or another!"

And again, steel clashed, and the heavens upturned spewed thunder.


End file.
